The Faults That Define Us
by CaliforniaDreamer
Summary: Literati, one shot. They wait and wait and wait. She's not perfect, and he's never claimed to be. So they beat around the bush a lot. It's quite sad, really.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmores Girls or the characters. I own only my warped mind._

_AN: I haven't written in awhile. This wasn't intentional, I just find it hard to write when I just don't have the drive for it. But sometimes, something completely random will push me, and giving me this longing to just write something so maybe I can get the emotion out of my system. This time, it was The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. The book has nothing to do with anything, other than the fact that I just finished it, and then wrote this to see if I could get my hands to stop shaking. Really, it's that good. But, I digress. Anyway, this maybe crap, but it is what it is._

The Faults That Define Us

They spend lifetimes waiting for each other.

They are both stubborn, selfish, stupid. What it is that they want, they aren't quite sure of. He wants one thing and she the other. Often, both of their wants are the same in all actuality, but it's not like they would realize it.

He is infuriating. He is annoying and selfish. He runs runs runs, and she doesn't stop him, just for spite.

She is an expert in taking. He never has much to offer her, but she gobbles the bits up greedily. She lives for the little things he does for her, coos over the big gestures (not that there are many.), but her joy dissipates the moment his fallacies rush out to meet her.

She's not so good at giving. This sometimes frustrates him. She owes him nothing, but he expects her to come back to him always, be his forever and ever amen. It's a silly thought, really.

He lies beautifully. She knows he's lying, and she knows she should say something, but she never does. She wants to believe him. This is her tragic flaw, her Achilles' heel.

She hates him, or she would if she didn't love him. He loves her because he knows he shouldn't.

They rip each other apart. It is vicious and painful, this thing that pulls at them. They live for and dread the kisses that taste like longing and regret and revenge all at the same time. They kill each other a bit at time.

* * *

They fuck occasionally, and they want to call it making love, but they can't quite bring themselves to do it. The first time, she initiates it. She kisses him hard, biting his lip roughly. He retaliates by yanking down her jeans and his, and he presses her against him firmly. He grins at her moan, but it is a weak grin, for she makes him tremble a bit.

It was harsh, it always is. It is about the spontaneous and the wrong. She almost always cries a little afterwards (it wasn't supposed to be like this.), and he can never look her in the eyes directly after.

All the same, it is still beautiful. They don't want it to be, but it is what it is.

* * *

They never fully belong to each other. She has nabbed a Yalie, much to the delight of Emily and Richard. He screws a succession of skanks, before he finally finds a monogamous woman.

Her name is Laurel, and she thinks Rory is simply a friend of his from high school.

They keep each other secret, in the darkest corners. They are ashamed, but they can't stop. The skin upon skin is an intoxicating drug, one that clouds the judgment.

But guilt settles eventually, and they know they can't do this anymore. So they don't.

It is simple.

* * *

They don't talk any more.

It shouldn't bother her, but she still thinks of him anyways. She longs to know how he is.

He shouldn't want her anymore, but he never finds the feel of any girl quite right, and he realizes that he compares them all to her.

They never act on their desires. They sit and wait them out.

* * *

He gets a call from Luke one day. It's been awhile. He didn't mean to lose touch, but these things happen.

It's Rory, Luke manages to choke out. She's sick. Cancer, he says. There's not much time, and she was asking to see him.

Shit.

Jess hangs up without a word, and lets himself slump down to the floor.

Time. They'd always had too much of it, and now it was almost gone.

* * *

He goes to see her, of course. Well not quite "of course"; he debated it. He feels like a fucking bastard, she wanted to see him, she needed to tie up loose ends. He's a selfish son of a bitch, but he doesn't want an ending with her.

He goes to her apartment and the sight of her almost kills him. She looks worn, and he hates it. He wants to fix her so desperately. He has never felt more helpless in his entire life.

She lets him in without a word, and they sit on awkwardly on her old couch.

He tries to speak, call out her name, but she stops him with a finger to his lips.

She tired of talking, running, thinking. She just wants to skip it all and get to the end now.

Later, they are lying with each other, limbs and sheets entangled. She breathes softly, shakily, and he holds her closely, as if to ensure that she's really there.

Her chest rises and falls delicately against him, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the instant slowly.

They have made love in imperfection.

Now they wait, but not for each other, with each other.


End file.
